


All Sorts

by Culumacilinte



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aromantic, Awkward Exes, Buddy comedy, Burlesque, Gen, M/M, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1816984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John 'Quintus' Foreman has inexplicable friends, and there is an awkward encounter with an ex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the club they're at is _that_ Bianca's. And, regarding the tags, though it doesn't really come up in this particular story, Tegan is a trans lady.

None of this is Quintus’s idea, absolutely none of it. It is, in fact, at times like this that he wonders why on Earth he’s friends with the people he’s friends with. Not that he doesn’t like Tegan and Turlough, of course, but both of them have an alarming tendency to do things like drag him along to burlesque clubs in the name of _lightening him up_.

Then again, Tegan and Turlough hardly seem to like each other half the time either. They all have a complex relationship.

Now, though, the two of them give every appearance of being fully in-sync, cracking wicked jokes at Quintus’s expense, exchanging appreciative assessments of the performers, relaxed in the atmosphere of the club where Quintus can’t quite get rid of the stiffness in his spine. Turlough is quiet as ever, slouching in his chair and smirking, pale eyes bright in the dim, but the cocktails they’ve been drinking have made Tegan’s laugh raucous. They’re both in clear agreement that Quintus’s fluster in the wake of the latest performer is hilarious.

Bianca, a dark-skinned bombshell in a slinky red dress with cleavage up to her chin and a voice that sounded like it’d been soaked in brandy, had zeroed in on him as an easy target and stared straight at him for the majority of her number. Not his type at all (even if he weren’t gay, which, seriously, he’s very gay), but still sufficient to make him blush from his collar all the way up to his hairline.

'Could've got in with that,' Turlough observes with faux idleness, eyes glancing over Quintus's awkward little scowl. Tegan snorts loudly.

'You think? She'd've mashed him into the ground and he wouldn't even have appreciated it.' She makes several goes for her straw, eyes on the retreating Bianca's backside. 'Probably straight; pity.'

Turlough shrugs philosophically, and Quintus sniffs. ‘No-matter what the two of you seem to think, I am not here to _get in_ with anybody. I am perfectly happy with my bachelor existence, despite your continued attempts to change that.’

'You,' Tegan says, waving her mojito at him, 'need to lighten up, Doc.'

'And _don’t_ call me Doc,’ he complains.

Turlough snickers. Any further mockery is forestalled by a bluesy blare of brass, and all three of them redirect their attention towards the stage, where a figure has appeared in backlit silhouette. By its proportions most likely male, a little plump, corseted into false curvature, frankly _killer_ legs, and a top hat nestled amongst a halo of curls. Quintus feels all the blood drain from his face. It _can’t_ be.

The spot goes up.

It is.

'Oh, _hell_ ,’ he mutters.

In time to the first echoing notes from the piano, the man onstage leans coquettishly against a chair, looks up through his lashes, and starts to sing. _Mein Herr_. Of bloody course. Quintus resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. Next to him, Turlough’s eyebrows go up, and Tegan wolf-whistles with great feeling. By the time the singer gets to the first ‘Toodle-oo,’ wiggling his fingers out at the audience, Turlough lets out an appreciative whoop.

Tegan leans into him, stage-whispering to be heard over the music. ‘Wouldn’t have thought he was your type; didn’t think you went in for drag.’

'I don't usually,' Turlough agrees, 'but imagine him without all that kit.' Turlough's preferences for burly older men were well documented.

'Mm,' hums Tegan thoughtfully. 'And those _cheekbones_. No way that’s all makeup.’

'Would you—?' Quintus hisses, aggrieved, 'there's no need to… analyse everyone as if we were at a cattle market. Besides, he's hardly that good-looking.'

Tegan swivels to eye him dubiously. ‘What’s crawled up your arse?’

He really shouldn’t have said anything. Prior to this, he’s tolerated his friends’ verbal scrutiny of the performers with bemused equanimity. Speaking up only draws attention, and he grumps and fidgets, pretending to be very interested in his ginger beer. Turlough’s grin is vulpine. As usual, he picks up on things more quickly than is good for anyone other than him.

'You _fancy_ him, don’t you?’

Quintus stabs the little lime wedge in his glass with his straw. ‘He’s an ex of mine,’ he enunciates delicately. ‘It’s complicated.’

Which is to say, Quintus would have been perfectly happy to keep on having sex, but Sean had got all emotionally attached and had wanted to move in and bring his cats with him, and Quintus had panicked. Not one of his finer moments.

'Oo-er.' That from both Tegan and Turlough, and Sean up onstage has got to the German section of the song and of course his pronunciation is _impeccable_ and Quintus always did have a thing for his voice and this really is deeply unfair.

His legs too, come to that, Quintus thinks dazedly as he strides about with feeling. Thick thighs and high calves and he’d never seen him in heels during the time they were seeing each other, but they suit him shockingly well. Outside of his own notice, his head has gradually fallen to one side, lips slightly parted. To his side, Tegan and Turlough exchange glances.

By the time Sean finishes on one last sultry note, made artfully rough, Quintus isn’t hard, but he’s so on edge that it would take next to nothing to get him there. His next drink he makes a dark and stormy.

'Well, well,' an all-too-familiar voice sounds behind him perhaps ten minutes later, and Quintus chokes on his drink, spraying his sensible cream trousers with rum and ginger. 'I must admit, I'd not thought I'd find you here. I believe the more usual method is simply to call.'

'I had no idea you worked here,' Quintus snipes hastily, brushing flapping hands over his lap and twisting to face Sean so he can't _loom_ quite so egregiously. He’s at least ditched the heels and the top hat, and has a lurid dressing gown thrown over his costume. ‘I thought you lectured in Semantics!’

'I _do_ lecture in Semantics,’ says Sean. ‘And in my free time I do this.’

Tegan whistles lowly. ‘Hell’s teeth, Doc, all that and an academic too? Bet you feel like a right drongo, letting that go.’

Sean’s lips purse in a little twitch of amusement, his eyebrows lifting delicately. ‘I see that someone in this company at least has good taste. My thanks, Miss—?’

'Tegan,' Tegan supplies, and grins when Sean takes her hand and presses a gentlemanly kiss to the back of it. 'And that's Turlough.'

Turlough offers a sardonic little wave from his position draped languidly against the back of the booth, and Sean inclines his head at him. ‘I assume dear Quintus’s presence here is down to your good selves? It’s been my general experience that anything remotely resembling nightlife sends him scrambling.’

'We consider it our solemn duty,' Turlough says with false gravity.

‘ _Thank you_ , Turlough,’ Quintus interrupts sourly. ‘Now if we’re quite done making sport of me, I’m sure Sean has… things to be getting on with.’

'Mm,' Sean intones significantly. 'Quite. Tegan, Turlough; a pleasure.' Turning his attention on Quintus, he lifts a hand to trail fingertips through his fine, floppy hair, plucking at a few strands. Quintus inhales once, hard, through his nose. 'I'm sure I shall be seeing you around.’

_He always knew how to make an exit_ , Quintus thinks with some amount of resentment, as Sean swans off across the club.

There’s a beat, and then Tegan and Turlough burst out laughing, Tegan elbowing him in the ribs with more force than is necessary. Quintus deflates like a balloon. ‘This is entirely your fault,’ he grumps. ‘As such, I demand at least one of you buy me a drink. I think I deserve that much.’

And however much he might wonder why, Tegan and Turlough are good enough friends at least that they buy him another drink each.


End file.
